


The Bucky Barnes Effect

by caloriebomb



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Belly Kink, Food, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Weight Gain, chef bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve is a hungry art student studying illustration, and Bucky's a reclusive food blogger who needs an illustrator for his new cookbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baklava? Baklava.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my efforts at an "ensemble" piece. Slow-burning as ever! 
> 
> If you're here for the kinky weight gain shit, that starts up in earnest in Chapter 2. If you're skeered of the kinky shit, better stay your course on Chapter 1, or turn your sails towards a more preferred horizon.

Finally, things were looking up. 

Steve had been off active duty for nearly two years now, but only recently had he begun to feel like he was starting to build some semblance of a real life. Since getting out he'd been working a soul-sucking job at a private security company that had sent him all over, so though he'd kept a cheap, drab little apartment in Lincoln, Nebraska, he'd been more or less living out of budget hotels for the past eighteen months, hungry for anything that wasn't Subway or a microwave burrito, and desperately lonely.

He knew he came off as an introvert, but at heart Steve was a social animal – it was part of the reason he'd joined the army in the first place, for companionship, a community. He was an only child and an orphan by seventeen, and he longed for connection, which he found in the army. He still Skyped his army buddies when he had the chance, but in-person, the only people he talked to regularly were his clients, usually paranoid millionaires or their irritable children, and then the only words they wanted to hear from him were, “All clear, sir,” as he escorted them from their outrageously expensive cars into their outrageously expensive restaurants, where he'd stand behind their shoulder and look intimidating while they picked at plates of luscious gourmet food. His biggest challenge was not letting his mouth water too noticeably. 

In his leisure time, he lifted weights and drew. He drew everything – the endless succession of shitty hotels, the cheap black suits that were his everyday wear, the scowls of a billionaire thwarted, the slumped shoulders of a socialite texting, the woman at the other end of the bar looking bored to tears as some square-jaw regaled her with tales of his prowess... Everything he saw ended up on paper, and all that paper ended up with Sam. 

Sam, his fellow vet, best friend, and biggest fan, who'd been waging a never-ending move-to-New-York campaign since they'd both gotten out, and who, unbeknownst to Steve, had saved every drawing, gotten them professionally photographed, and compiled them into a portfolio, which he emailed to Steve with the subject line GO TO ART SCHOOL BITCH.

And here Steve was on the first week of part-time art-school classes, with a new wardrobe containing absolutely no black suits, and a sunny (albeit tiny) bedroom in a well-maintained apartment in Bed-Stuy. 

His roommate, too, was courtesy of Sam, though the jury was out on his gratitude because Natasha scared him absolutely shitless. 

“She's a total sweetheart, when you get to know her,” Sam had promised. “Her last roommate didn't work out because – well, some people just can't take the heat, you know?”

“I hate living with other people,” she told him, their first day as roommates. “Unless I can make money off them. My partner owns this building so I live here for free, but you, you pay. You pay me, do you understand? Not Clint. He is not your landlord. I am. This is my territory. Clear?”

She had a faint Russian accent. Steve swallowed. 

“Clear,” he said. 

Clint turned out to be the opposite of Natasha, easy and warm where she was cold, quick to laugh, quick to smile, though he clearly had some baggage of his own. He slept hanging from the rafters of his own apartment, for one thing, on a hammock some fifteen feet off the floor. He was deaf without his hearing aids and hard-of-hearing with them, and prone to ignoring anyone he didn't feel like dealing with. After spending the night with Nat, he was often covered in scratches and bite marks, and once or twice in the first week Steve heard the unmistakable crack of a leather whip. 

Steve was so happy to be living among other human beings, however, that he didn't care one bit.

“So you finished your first week as a college student,” Natasha said that Friday, when he came home covered in oil paint and turpentine. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, surprised and a little wary. So far she'd mostly ignored him. “I'm only part-time. It's just two classes.” 

“Still. You should be proud. Sam's on his way with food,” she said. “We'll cook up on the roof and you can meet the neighbors. Sam's always showed me your drawings, you know. They're something special.”

“Oh,” Steve stuttered, “I – really? I mean --”

“You don't look like a good artist,” she said, busying herself with a six pack of beer.

Steve couldn't help but laugh at that. “What do I look like?”

She handed him a beer, and he could have sworn she winked. “A man who follows orders.” 

+

Steve found himself thinking about her words as he changed out of his painty clothes. One a certain, level, she was right – he was a man who followed orders. Always had been. Was that mutually exclusive with art? 

He knew he didn't fit the “look” of an artist – had been made excruciatingly aware of it that whole week of classes. At 28, he was a decade older than most of the other students, and next to his waifish, bright-haired, tattooed millennial classmates he felt square in every sense of the word: hugely broad and over-muscled, and tragically un-hip. He could feel curious eyes on him wherever he went, and when he gave his mumbled introductions in class, he skipped the part about having been a soldier, not wanting to seem like the embodiment of everything art was supposed to be against. In retrospect, though, he wished he'd mentioned it. He himself was conflicted about his own service, and about the government he'd sworn to protect, but it was his life – he couldn't just hide it with a good coat of white gesso, like a bad painting. Maybe he didn't agree with everything the army did, but he had helped people – he really had.

He'd hurt them, too.

He put on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, the uniform he'd adopted after years of army gear and those awful suits, and eyed himself in the mirror critically. God, another uniform; this one was voluntary, sure, but it was a uniform nonetheless. Maybe he should take a leaf out of those art kids' books, add some color to his wardrobe, pierce his nose or something. Even in civilian clothes, he looked like a soldier. 

Maybe he should quit working out. His biceps were as big as most of his classmates' heads. The muscle was from his old life – he didn't need it anymore.

“Steve!” Sam shouted from outside his door. “Get out here, college boy! We're celebrating!”

+

The other tenants were a diverse bunch – aging hippies; a few young families; a wannabe hip-hop artist and her cowed boyfriend; a set of twenty-something punks; and a guy around Steve's age, apparently the only person in the building who lived alone. 

“This is James,” Natasha said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek – the only blatant affection Steve had yet seen her show. 

“Only Nat calls me that,” said James, and offered his hand for Steve to shake. His left arm was in a strappy pink sling. “Most people call me Bucky.”

“James is an artist, too,” said Natasha.

“No, I'm not,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes, and good god were they blue. “I'm a cook.”

“Cooking is an art,” Steve said, politely.

“What would you know?” Natasha said. “He lives off Subway,” she told Bucky, who groaned. 

“What?” said Steve. “They have a good Italian.”

“No,” said Bucky, “no, they don't. Jesus, where are you from?”

“Iowa,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, looking him up and down and laughing, though not in a mean way. “Yeah, you sure are.”

“James, too, was in the forces,” said Natasha. “The American government's finally got me surrounded.”

“After years of my calling for backup,” Bucky said, and grinned at Steve. “Hey, I made you a cake.”

“What? You made – for me?”

“Devil's Food,” said Bucky. “Sam said it was your favorite. Kinda risque for Iowa, huh?”

“You didn't have to do – I mean that's – it is my favorite.”

“Well,” Bucky said, “can't have dessert before you have dinner. I'm manning the grill tonight, so what'll it be? No fuckin' Subway. Hot dog? Sausage? Cheeseburger?”

“Anything,” Steve said, smiling. “Everything.”

+

Bucky, Steve thought, looked like an artist.

Okay, fashionably speaking he was nothing to write home about – he was wearing a black beanie, a black t-shirt and black sweatpants shoved into a huge pair of black combat boots, but underneath his hat his hair was long and devil-may-care messy. He was solid but not soldier-solid, and his fingers were long and graceful, like a pianist's. He had extremely long lashes and a soft, mobile mouth. 

Most importantly, he was awesome. 

“You've never had baklava?” he howled, clapping his good hand to his chest. “You're killin' me. What'd you eat, growing up?”

“Meat, corn, and potatoes,” Steve said. “I know, I'm a walking stereotype.”

“All right, Captain America,” Bucky said, “tell me what you think of this.” He plonked an intimidatingly large sausage on Steve's plate.

“I just had a cheeseburger,” Steve protested, but forked it obligingly and took a bite. “Haaah,” he breathed. “'s spicy!”

“No,” Bucky said, shaking his head, “it's spiced, but it sure as hell ain't spicy. We are gonna train – your – tastebuds,” he said, poking him in the chest for emphasis. “Now, finish that sausage and you can have some cake.”

Half an hour later, Steve was perched at the wooden picnic table, staring mournfully at what remained of his fourth piece of cake.

“You okay there, Steve?” Clint said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Too full to eat the rest,” Steve said. “But I want to. So bad.”

“The Bucky Barnes effect,” Clint nodded.

“This is the best cake I've ever had.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bucky said, thumping down next to Clint. He put his beer down and used his good hand to settle his left arm more comfortably in its pink sling. “Though I don't know if that's a compliment, coming from you and your cornfed tastebuds.”

“Hey,” Steve said, “gimme some credit. I know quality when I taste it.”

“Not yet,” Bucky said, flashing white, even teeth. “But you will.”

+

The next day, Steve stumbled into the kitchen to find Clint sitting at the table staring at a big red tupperware container. Steve blinked.

“What's that?” he said.

Nothing. 

“What's that?” he yelled.

“Shut up,” Sam groaned from the couch in the other room. “Some of us are trying to sleep off our hangovers.”

“Huh?” Clint said, looking up.

“What's that?” Steve said, quietly.

“A gift from Bucky,” Clint said. “It's for you. But I know for a fact that it's food, and I'm not leaving until you open it up and share.”

“From Bucky?”

“C'mon, open it. I'm hungry.”

Steve was, to his embarrassment, kind of excited, like a kid on Christmas morning. It'd been a while since he'd gotten a present. His excitement turned to doubt, however, when he saw that the tupperware was stuffed full of something that shiny, crinkly, and entirely unfamiliar. 

“Baklava,” Clint breathed, reaching forward. Steve grabbed his wrist to get his attention.

“It looks weird,” he said urgently. 

“Grow up,” Clint said, shaking him off, and stuffed an entire sticky-looking square into his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, little flakes of pastry dough flecking his lips. “Fucckk,” he groaned.

“Did Bucky make this?” Steve demanded, suspicious.

“Yasss,” Clint garbled.

“What, he left the party and baked all night?”

“He'sh nosh --” Clint swallowed, finally. “He doesn't really sleep like normal people.” He helped himself to another couple pastries and said, “All right, I'm outta here. You better try this, Steve, so help me god.”

He slammed the door behind him. Sam swore from the other room. 

Well, if Bucky made it, it couldn't be all bad, right? Tentatively, Steve picked one of the pastries up. He sniffed it. He put his tongue out. He nibbled a corner. He took a full bite. He jammed the whole thing into his mouth. 

By the time Sam woke up properly and padded into the kitchen looking for breakfast, the baklava was gone and Steve was resting his head on the table, sticky with honey and crumbs. 

“What happened to you?” Sam said, rattling around in the cupboards for coffee. 

“I think I had a baklava blackout,” Steve said. “Ugh, I feel sick.”

“The Bucky Barnes effect,” Sam said, nodding sagely.

+

To thank Bucky, Steve drew a picture of himself slumped in front of an empty plate, hearts in his eyes, and in the hearts, pieces of baklava. Beneath it he wrote, “I'm a changed man.” He slipped the drawing under the door before he went to class on Monday.

That evening, Steve was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework (homework!) when a knock came on the door, but low down, like someone was kicking it. He opened it to find Bucky, holding a huge glass pan of – something. 

“Hi!” Steve said. 

“Take this, take this,” Bucky said urgently, and shoved the glass pan at Steve, who grabbed it instinctively. “Phew – too heavy for one hand! I was like this close to dropping it.”

“Come in,” Steve said, as Bucky shoved past him. “Uh --”

“That's noodle kugel,” Bucky said, nodding at the pan. “Nat's grandma's recipe, actually, though I tweaked it a little. You hungry?”

Steve set the pan down on the countertop, and casually stepped in front of the Subway bag he'd left crumpled conspicuously behind him. “Just ate, actually, but --”

“Steve,” Bucky said, plucking plates and forks out of the drying rack, “Subway doesn't count as food. Look, I want to talk to you about something – something best discussed over kugel.”

Once he'd piled their plates high, he said, “Steve, that drawing you made me was awesome.”

“Well, that baklava was awesome. Jesus, this is awesome, too. Are these raisins?”

“Yeah. The recipe's in my first cookbook.”

“You wrote a cookbook?”

“And I'm under contract for a second one,” Bucky said. “Got a big fat advance and everything. This one's gonna be little different, though – kind of old-fashioned, not so glossy and in-your-face, and I don't want any photographs. Instead, I want illustrations. High-quality, stylized illustrations of the dishes. I can pay competitively, plus you'll get to sample everything you draw. Will you think about it?”

“Wait,” Steve said, tearing his attention away from the kugel. “You're asking – me, to do it? To draw? For a book?”

“I know it'd be a lot of work, and you're in school, but --”

“Yes,” Steve said. “Fuck yes, I'll do it. Are you kidding? This is for real?”

“So real,” Bucky said. “Like, draw-up-a-contract real. So you gotta be sure. I'll send you all the specifics over email so you know exactly what you're getting into.”

“Bucky,” Steve said. “This is an amazing opportunity for me. You know I've never illustrated anything before, right? I mean, not officially. I have zero experience. Are you sure you want to --”

“I'm sure,” Bucky said firmly. “Sam's showed me your stuff, and I have no doubts.”

“Jeez,” Steve muttered. “Who didn't he show?”

“He's proud of you,” Bucky said. And then, a little shyly, “I'd be proud, too. To have you draw for me. But you don't have to promise me anything right now – I'll send you the info, you can look it over and decide. Eat your kugel.”

And Steve did. Despite the footlong Italian he'd just put away, he ate nearly half the pan under Bucky's pleased gaze, and when Natasha came home a few hours later, he ate a little more to keep her company. 

“It's good Bucky likes you,” she said, popping a noodle into her mouth. “He doesn't like many people.”

“Really?” Steve said. “He seems so friendly.”

“Friendly, sure,” she said, shrugging. “But, you know, he's got his shit.”

“Don't we all,” Steve said. Then, boldly, “What about you, Natasha? What's your shit?”

She gave him an amused eyebrow raise. “Pray you never find out.”

+

“Hey. This is Steve. Rogers. From downstairs?”

“This is Bucky Barnes from upstairs.”

“Ha. Yeah. Um. Well, I just called to say – I read over everything you emailed me, and I checked out your first cookbook, which is beautiful, by the way, and – I'm still super interested in working with you, if you're still, you know, interested? In working with me?”

“Yes! That's really good news, Steve. Thank you! When can you start?”

“Uh – now?”

+

Bucky hadn't been lying – it really was a lot of work. It turned out he'd gotten his cookbook deals through his food blog, Lend Me a Hand, which was still his main source of income, and, weirdly, his full-time job. 

“Yeah, I'm a professional blogger,” Bucky said, making a face. “After I got discharged I had a lot of downtime, plus I had to re-learn how to cook everything one-handed, plus cooking's always chilled me out... so I was kind of in the kitchen 24/7. My sister convinced me to buy a domain name and showed me how to set it up and everything, and I didn't have a hell of a lot else going on, so I got pretty into it. I don't know – it all happened really fast.”

Bucky wanted an illustration a week for the blog, plus one hundred and one illustrations for the book – most small greyscale, with a handful of full-pages in color. In six months.

“Six months is optimistic,” he said. “My agent knows it'll take longer than that. But yeah, I figure if we aim for four or five illustrations a week, we'll be rolling. Is that do-able for you?”

“I think so,” Steve said. “I mean, I doubt the little ones will take me more than an hour each.”

“And you've gotta eat, right?” Bucky said. 

“That's what they tell me,” Steve said. 

So, four or five nights a week, Steve went up to Bucky's apartment for what Sam liked to call “Masterpiece Dinner.” Steve would show up with his materials, make some sketches, take a few reference pictures, and then feast on whatever Bucky had prepared. Sam tagged along too sometimes, or Natasha and Clint, but most of the time it was just Steve and Bucky. 

Behind his initial chatty charm, Bucky was actually pretty quiet, Steve discovered. The chatter was more nerves than confidence, and the better they got to know each other, the calmer Bucky became. He was prone to long silences, though not uncomfortable ones, and sometimes they'd sit at the table without speaking for nearly an hour, Steve happily sketching away and nibbling on the subject of his drawing, Bucky taking notes and watching with a half-smile on his face. 

Steve always got talkative when he started eating in earnest, like once his mouth was moving it had to keep going. He'd tell Bucky about his day in between plates of gourmet pasta or creamy bowls of soup, complaining about Printmaking I as he scarfed down butter-braised pork chops or imitating his squeaky-voiced 2D Design professor as he took a third helping of white chocolate cheesecake. Bucky was an attentive listener, laughing at Steve's jokes, shaking his head in sympathy, always re-filling Steve's plate when it started to get low. Steve always left Bucky's apartment with leftovers, and a warm, full feeling that wasn't entirely due to the absurd amounts of food he could never stop himself from eating. He felt he'd known Bucky all his life. 

“You're replacing me,” Sam pouted. 

“Oh, please,” Steve said. “Pass the guacamole?”

They were having lunch at a Mexican place near Sam's apartment, Sam nibbling on a couple tacos, Steve's plate heavy with a steak burrito and a chicken quesadilla – he'd been hungry, lately. Was getting used to Bucky's enormous portions. 

“He can cook,” Sam said. “I can't compete with that!”

“You're just jealous he doesn't cook for you,” Steve said. 

“All right, yes,” Sam said.

“You gonna eat that taco?”

“Yes, dammit, get your paws off. Not everyone wants to feed you!”

+

Aside from the weeknight dinners, Bucky left food at Steve and Nat's place in the daytime, too. Steve would wake up to a still-hot breakfast casserole steaming on their countertop, or Nat would come home from her work at a women's self-defense gym to find a blackberry bourbon pie sitting on their stove. 

“Why did I give him a key?” Nat moaned, pushing a half-eaten slice of carrot cake away from her. “I'm gonna gain ten pounds.”

“I don't think one slice will make a difference,” Steve said, but added her leftovers to his own plate. “Has he always done this?”

“Not to this extent, but when he was working on his last cookbook, yes – constantly. That man needs a hobby.”

“He doesn't get out much, huh,” Steve said, tentative.

“No,” said Nat. “Like I said... he's got his shit.”

That night, after she'd gone to sleep, Steve poured himself a glass of milk and cut himself another hunk of cake and tried to remember the last time Bucky mentioned having left the apartment. He got all his groceries delivered, and he'd never talked about going out for drinks with anyone, or going to a restaurant, or even going to the post office. 

Steve eased off another wedge of cake, frowning – in part because he was so full, but couldn't keep his fork away from that cream cheese frosting, god – but mostly because he was worried for his friend. A new friend, sure – but already, a real friend. 

The next morning, he woke bright and early and intercepted Bucky as he tried to sneak a quiche onto the kitchen table.

“Hi!”

Bucky jumped about a foot in the air, and whirled around, scowling. “Jesus, Steve, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“That smells good,” Steve said, peering down.

“Bacon and cheddar,” Bucky said. “A real classic.” He was smiling, but he had dark circles under his eyes, and was massaging his slinged elbow unconsciously with his good hand. 

“Sit down and have some with me,” Steve cajoled, and Bucky sank somewhat reluctantly into a chair while Steve got out plates and put on the coffee pot.

“Needs more pepper,” Bucky said after the first bite.

“Are you kidding?” Steve said. “It's fucking perfect.”

“Everything could always be better,” Bucky said, somewhat ominously, in Steve's opinion.

“Are you this critical of restaurant food, too?”

“Not good food.”

A perfect segue. “Well, look, I don't have class today – wanna grab some lunch? You probably know all the good places around here.”

Bucky stared at his quiche. “I can't today.”

“Thursday?”

“Probably not Thursday either.”

They ate in silence for a while, Steve taking seconds and then thirds after Bucky had finished and was just drinking coffee and watching him. When he'd finished his third slice and was leaning back somewhat uncomfortably in his chair, his jeans feeling markedly less than loose, Bucky cut him a fourth slice without being asked, like it was second nature.

“Look, it's no big deal,” he said, passing the quiche to Steve, who had no choice but to keep eating. “I'm just not that big a fan of... crowds.”

“We could go somewhere quiet?”

“This is New York,” Bucky said. “There is nowhere quiet. Everywhere's loud. People talking and yelling, music from every window, commercials on the radio, assholes leaning on their horns, and strangers always trying to talk to you. They ask you how's your day, and tourists ask you where's the Statue of Liberty or wherever the fuck. Plus people always bang into me, nobody watches where they're going. Freaks me out, fucks up my arm... No. Sorry, but no.”

“I was a bodyguard,” Steve said. “I could keep people away. I'm big.”

Bucky smiled at that. “You're not that big, Captain America.”

“I'm strong. I'm a professional.”

The smile was gone. “I said no.”

“All right,” Steve said, refusing to take it personally. “Well, offer stands. Anytime you want a little extra protection.”

Bucky relaxed. “Thanks. I'll let you know.”

“We could order lunch in?” Steve said. “Today? You need a break from all this cooking, man.”

Bucky looked startled, then pleased. “That sounds really nice, actually. But only if you take a break from drawing, too.”

“All pleasure, no business,” Steve promised. 

“Well,” Bucky said, “I've been wanting to try this Malaysian place...”

+

Steve was having bad laundry luck. First he forgot to bring quarters down for the ancient machines in the basement and had to trek all the way back up three flights of stairs, then he absentmindedly started the dryer before the washer and wasted 50 cents, and then, somehow, he'd managed to shrink his favorite pair of jeans.

“Fuck,” he muttered, wincing as he got the button done-up, but just barely. He sank into a squat, hoping that might stretch them out, but they were too tight to even get into the full position. He peeled them off, resigned and disappointed, and reached for a different pair, though he couldn't help but notice that these, too, felt a little tighter than he remembered, although it'd been a few weeks since he'd washed them. 

He ran a hand down his stomach, feeling where the waistband was cutting into the soft skin below his belly button, and gave an internal shrug. He'd stopped working out, after all; this was probably a natural consequence of saying goodbye to the washboard abs he'd so zealously maintained for so long. Workin' on my artist's physique, he thought, and laughed out loud.

He was on campus for most of that day, taking advantage of the facilities and trying to get a feel for the printing equipment, all of which had seemed confusing at first but was now beginning to make sense. Printing really appealed to his sense of regimentation – it was such a process, had so many steps and took such careful planning. He had an etching due the next week, and he wanted to finish the plate today so he could start editioning it early – something he could've done at home, but he liked coming to the printing studio and working amidst the chatter and buzz of other students, the tang of chemicals in the air, the smell of ink. 

The print he was working on was of food, of course – he usually merged his assignments with the work he did for Bucky, both for convenience's sake, and because he'd found that he truly loved drawing food. He'd always drawn people, and that was where he was most comfortable, but food was a whole different challenge with a different set of rules. Today he was etching an over-the-top decadent cake, piled high with frosting and visibly sagging under the weight of its own sugary moistness, and beneath it he'd drawn a banner, in which he planned to write: The Devil's Food. 

He'd just started to form that first T when someone behind him said, “Wait!” and grabbed his shoulder.

He was off his stool before he knew what was happening, towering high and dangerous over a girl much smaller than himself, and he immediately shrank back and began stammering an apology, but she was shaking her head, smiling. 

“Please, you didn't frighten me in the slightest,” she said, her voice clipped and British. “I shouldn't have startled you. You're in my Intro to Printmaking class, right? You're Steve. I'm Peggy.”

“Hi,” he said, still flushed and ashamed, but relaxing a little in her calmness. She was one of the tattooed young things who so intimidated him, birds and ship's anchors and flowers blooming from the sleeves and neck of her 40's-style dress. “Nice to meet you.”

“Look, I just wanted to make sure you remember that any words you write will come out backwards, when you print it – so you've got to reverse the words, first. Maybe you already knew that, and had a plan, but --”

“No,” Steve breathed, looking down with horror at his nearly-ruined plate. “No, I totally forgot about that. Shit. Thanks, Peggy!”

“I mean, it wouldn't've been the end of the world, you could've burnished it out and re-etched it, but even so...”

“You've saved me hours and hours of work,” he said. “Seriously. God, I don't even want to think...”

“I really love your work, by the way,” she said. “It's... luscious. My girlfriend's a big foodie, and when I showed her your last print she said she thought she recognized the style from a cooking blog she follows – something about a hand?”

“Lend Me a Hand,” Steve beamed. “Yeah, that's my stuff! The guy's a friend of mine.”

“Angie will be totally star-struck,” Peggy said. “She made that terrine the other day, the mushroom and whatsit –”

“Pistachio,” Steve said, his mouth watering just to think of it.

“Right, and my god, it was divine.”

“You're making me hungry,” he said. 

“Well – do you want to come and get some lunch, then? I'm meeting Angie in a few minutes, at this Himalayan buffet down the street. I know you're right in the middle of --”

“This can wait,” Steve said, maybe too eagerly, but this was the first possible art-friend he'd made and he didn't want to lose her. “I have some cookies in my bag made by Bucky Barnes himself, so we'll be set for dessert.”

They ate the cookies as an appetizer, however, because as soon as Angie heard who'd baked them she practically ripped Steve's backpack from his back in her haste to get to them. 

“Oh my god,” she said, through a mouthful of almond dust and spun sugar. “These are literally from the hands of the gods.”

“The hand,” Steve corrected. They were walking towards the restaurant, sharing the bag of cookies between them. 

“Right,” Angie said. “I can't believe you know him! Bucky Barnes! What I wouldn't give...”

Steve tucked a third cookie into his cheek, spoke around it. “He's... well-known, then?”

“Well-known!” Angie screeched. “He's like the mecca of cooking blogs! I'm proud to say I've been following him since he started out a few years ago, so I'm a true fan. Back then it was mostly just one-handed cooking tips, but so funny, god, and the recipes... You know Gwyneth Paltrow instas his food all the time?”

“Insta...gram?”

“Wait, you're telling me you don't google yourself? Steve, people instagram and tweet your drawings all the time! People get tattoos of your shit!”

“Angie threatened to get a tattoo of the pot roast you drew a few weeks ago,” Peggy said. 

“Those little potatoes!” Angie said. 

Once they'd filled their plates at the buffet and started eating, Angie'd calmed down enough to talk about her own work, which was just as interesting to Steve as his was to her. She was a sculptor – a welder by trade – and was working on a commission for a public garden in Manhattan. She was twenty-six, older than Peggy, who was just about to finish her undergrad degree, and Steve found it fascinating to listen to her discuss the ins and outs of the New York art world.

“I don't think a scene is really my scene,” Steve said, finishing up his fourth plate of food and wriggling uncomfortably in his too-tight jeans. 

“You do you,” Angie agreed. “Seems like you've found your niche, already. And what a niche it is! Do you get to eat all the food you draw?”

“Every bite,” Steve said, and gave into his urge to pop the button on his jeans. No one would be able to tell. 

“Jesus, I'd be the size of a house,” Angie said.

“I'd like to see that,” Peggy snorted.

“Oh, it would be worth it, though,” Angie said dreamily.

“It is,” Steve said, fingering his unbuttoned waistband. “It really is.”


	2. A Man Who Takes Orders

Now that Steve knew Bucky didn't like to leave the building, he made more of an effort to socialize outside of their near-nightly sessions. He started going over to Bucky's earlier to watch him cook, perching at the counter and snacking on a plate of cheese and crackers and watching in awe as Bucky managed one-handed what Steve wouldn't have been able to do five-handed. He had a few special tools – a one-handed can-opener, for instance – but mostly he just made do with what was around. 

Steve found he couldn't keep from sketching him – couldn't stop his pencil from tracing the curve of Bucky's back as he bent over a steaming pot, or the way his hand looked when he pulled it out from kneading bread dough, floury and light. How a few strands of hair would escape their ponytail and make their way down to cast shadows on Bucky's cheek. How a tiny pulp of lemon clung undetected to Bucky's lower lip from where he'd tasted a spoonful of fresh lemon curd. 

Bucky came to his apartment often, too, always bearing gifts of food. Occasionally he'd come just to see Natasha, and he and Nat would disappear into her room for hours while Steve would finish off whatever Bucky'd brought and try not to feel too left out. It was ridiculous to feel left out, because he spent an absolutely enormous amount of time with Bucky – but somehow it never felt like enough. 

When he was on campus, he'd eat whatever treat Bucky'd baked and wish he could show Bucky the print studio, or the darkroom. He'd savor the taste of sugar on his tongue and wonder what Bucky was doing right that moment. Probably cooking, or reading about cooking, or watching the Great British Bake-off. Or maybe eating, though that was least likely. Bucky preferred to give his food away. He ate, of course... but his guests always ate more.

Well. Steve ate more.

His pants were getting unignorably tighter and tighter. He couldn't even button his favorite pair, and his very loosest were now cutting into him so painfully it was a real distraction. He made it through a couple days of feeling like he had a vise around his waist, but he had to pop his button every time he sat down or else it would've popped itself right off. 

“Trousers getting tight?” Peggy said archly. They'd grabbed a couple slices of pizza between classes – well, Peggy'd had a couple, and Steve had had five. $1 a slice, how could he resist? And now they were eating Bucky's excellent cannoli, sitting on a park bench and watching the yellow fall leaves quiver on the ends of the branches. Steve had leaned back unceremoniously to get his button undone, his fingers leaving streaks of powdered sugar on his black sweatshirt. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, adjusting his waistband in relief. “Are they ever.”

“Angie and I are going shopping tomorrow,” she said. “We have to look nice for her cousin's wedding.”

“You always look nice.”

“You're a gentleman, but we have to look Midwest Christian-nice.”

Steve eyed her ample cleavage, on full, glorious display as always. “Oh.”

“Come with us? Have lunch, get a few drinks, hit up H&M or something?”

“I don't think... I mean, I'm just gonna go online and order these in the next size up. Unless – well, I don't know. What do you think of my style?”

Peggy, to her credit, didn't laugh. Steve, bright red, couldn't look at her, but he truly did want to know. “Your style?” she said. “You always look – very – orderly.”

“Peggy, c'mon. Tell me the truth.”

“You look like an off-duty cop.”

Steve groaned. “That's what I was afraid of.”

“So let me and Angie dress you up!” she said, and clapped her hands together. “God, please? I've been having fantasies about putting you in skinny jeans.”

“No hipster shit,” Steve warned.

“No! No, Steve, just clothing that fits you properly. Shows off your figure.”

Steve patted the bit of belly that had surged happily forward and settled over his undone button. “My figure,” he said doubtfully. “Right.”

+

“God damn, Rogers,” Bucky said the next evening, eyes widening as Steve let himself in. “What's the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Steve muttered. “Let my friends talk me into buying some new clothes.”

“Smart friends,” Bucky said approvingly.

“Yeah? I feel a little... I don't know... silly?”

“You've joined the 21st century,” Bucky said. “It's a silly century. No, honestly, you look – you look great.”

Steve was wearing a new pair of dark-washed jeans, cuffed over a pair of Italian leather boots that had been outrageously expensive but were so beautiful he'd let Angie convince him to splurge. Despite his protests against hipster shit, those hipsters sure had some nice flannel, so he'd picked up a few soft, cozy flannel shirts, too, in reds and blues, to layer over his customary white t-shirt. 

“Normally, I'd suggest you trade in those baggy t-shirts, too,” Peggy had said. “But they're getting less baggy by the day.”

“Hey!”

“Ain't a bad thing,” Angie had said, and delivered a round smack to Steve's admittedly larger ass. 

“You're making me feel like a scrub,” Bucky said, turning back to the stovetop. He was, as always, in sweatpants and combat boots.

“You make sweatpants look like couture,” Steve said, then immediately blushed. What a stupid thing to say. 

But Bucky just laughed. “Couture, huh? Here, taste this alfredo sauce.”

Later, when Steve had put his drawing materials away and was happily tucking into his second heaping bowl of alfredo (comfortably! God bless new pants), Bucky said, twirling a noodle around his fork, “I, uh, I started – seeing a new therapist. This morning.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, looking up. Then, “At their office?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Sam borrowed a car and took me. It's a friend of his.”

Steve felt a stupid pang of jealous that Bucky'd asked Sam to take him, not Steve, but it was squashed almost instantly with happiness. “Wow, Buck. That's – that's awesome. That you – you know --”

“Right,” Bucky said. “I'd seen her before over Skype? She – she's used to people like me. And we've been kind of working up to an in-person appointment, and... it went really well? I think. I'm on this new medication, and... fuck, I feel really stupid talking about this.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, and put down his fork. He reached out, not quite touching Bucky's good arm where it lay on the table. “I want you to talk to me. I want to hear whatever you have to say. It's not stupid. It's fucking important.”

Bucky was quiet for a while, then said, “Okay, so new meds, new therapist, whatever. My point is, I'm supposed to do these, like, exercises. Walking to the end of the block; buying milk at the corner store; sitting in a park for ten minutes. Stuff like that. With people I trust. So I don't know, if you'd ever want to go for a five-minute walk with a guy who's maybe tweaking out a little...”

“Yes,” Steve said. He knew he was beaming like a loon, but he couldn't help it. “Anytime. Seriously. Anytime.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, and gave him a small, but very real, smile. “Uh. How's the alfredo? Too thick?”

“It's great,” Steve said, and took that as his cue to keep eating. And eating. And eating. He was so used to working around the discomfort of tight pants that he didn't notice the usual signs warning him when he was getting painfully full – so it was only after four plates of alfredo and half a buttered baguette that he thought to check in with his body, only to find his body waving a cheesy white flag of surrender. 

“Clint's gonna come down for dessert,” Bucky said, checking his phone.

“Dessert?” Steve said, weakly. He was slumped back in his chair, one hand draped over the hot, full bulge of his belly. “I don't think I have room.”

“It's key lime pie with an orange curry crust,” Bucky said. “Very fresh. Very light. I mean, okay, two sticks of butter, sure, but lots of citrus.”

Three pieces of pie later, and Steve really thought he might burst.

“I'm gonna burst,” he said. 

“I can't understand you with your mouth full,” Clint said, and snickered. “Which is why I never understand you.”

Steve shoved another bite of pie into his mouth and said, around the tender, crispy crust, “Fuck 'oo.”

Bucky touched Clint's arm to get his attention. “I got the newest Hunger Games on Amazon,” he said. “I know it's late, but, you down?”

“You know I can't resist Katniss,” Clint said. “She reminds me of me.”

Steve agreed less because he wanted to watch a movie, and more because he couldn't handle the idea of waddling down two flights of stairs just yet. Instead, he stretched out on Bucky's couch with a beer or four while Bucky sat next to him and tried to figure out the closed captioning. It felt great to let his hands cool from the bottle's condensation before he put the beer down and tucked his chilly hands up under his t-shirt to soothe his too-warm, overworked stomach.

At some point he dozed off, only to jerk awake in a panic to the sounds of screaming and explosions, gasping for air, terrified. Immediately Bucky's hand was on his chest, holding him down, firm and safe. The sound stopped, the movie paused, and Bucky said, “Shit, Stevie, I didn't think. You'd think me of all people would... fuck. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Steve said, his heart still beating a mile a minute. “I'm fine. Jesus. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Bucky said. He was sitting forward in his seat, his strong hand still wide on Steve's chest. At some point he'd taken off his sling, and Steve could see his bad arm fully for the first time, lying bare and limp and very slender on his lap. Clint had gotten to his feet, and both of them were watching Steve with concern.

“Really, I'm okay,” Steve said. “You don't apologize, either. Hits me outta nowhere sometimes.”

“Maybe we should save the rest of the movie for another night,” Clint said. 

“No,” Steve protested. “I'll be all right.”

“You want anything?” Bucky said. “Water? Another beer?”

“Wouldn't say no to some more pie,” Steve said, mostly to make Bucky laugh, and it worked.

“Yeah, you're okay,” Bucky said. “More pie coming up.”

+

Bucky and Steve's first outing was to the end of the block and back. Bucky pulled his hat down until it nearly covered his eyes, tightened his sling, and set his jaw with a determination that kind of broke Steve's heart. 

“You'll stay close?” he said, quietly, like he was embarrassed to even ask it at all, and Steve said, “As close as you want me.”

Which was, it turned out, very close. Bucky walked the block pretty much pressed into Steve's side, his breath coming in a series of shaky whooshes, and Steve had to restrain himself from going into full-on bodyguard mode, glaring at passers-by and hip-checking anyone who came too close to Bucky's bad side. Bucky was absolutely silent the entire block, but Steve kept up a running patter – talking about the art he was making, Peggy's new haircut, Natasha's habit of late-night 80s exercise videos, Steve's habit of late-night cookie-eating, Sam's new journalist girlfriend and their weekend upstate, how excited Steve was to try Bucky's twist on Pad Thai that night. 

“Swear to god, Buck,” Steve rambled, “if I'm not eating your cooking, I'm thinking about eating your cooking. I haven't even looked at a Subway in months. Okay, I'll admit I got Taco Bell the other day, but it was just a snack, didn't even count. Had a jones for a Crunchwrap Supreme, but guess what? I didn't even enjoy it. You've spoiled me, pal. It's gourmet or nothing, for me.”

He talked until they'd reached the doorway of their building, and they'd both spilled back inside. 

At which point Bucky turned and wrapped Steve in a quick, fierce one-armed hug, his face pressed into Steve's shoulder. Steve barely had time to wrap his arms around Bucky, his heart suddenly pounding a hole through his chest, when Bucky was pulling away and saying, “Thanks, Stevie. See you at seven?”

That night, Steve lay in bed patting his poor, swollen stomach, filled to bursting with Pad Thai and coconut ice cream and about ten skewers of beef satay, and for some reason his mind kept replaying that hug – over and over, the press of Bucky's body against his, the feeling of Bucky's cheek on his shoulder, his warm breath, the tickle of his hair... 

Without quite meaning to, Steve's hand had wormed its way past the tight waistband of his sweatpants and was giving his dick a series of gentle, rhythmic squeezes that soon had Steve shoving down his sweatpants entirely and going at it in earnest, grunting a little as the movement jostled his full belly, then gasping as his mind again supplied the feeling of Bucky's warm solidity, wrapped up in Steve's arms, safe, and protected, and moving against him, his hand on Steve's hip, trailing down, his beautiful lips on Steve's skin, and 

oohhhh goddd.

Steve came with a groan and a sign and a wave of pure longing that he immediately tried to smother.

It was a fluke. It was natural. People always jerked off to their friends. It's just they spent so much time together. It was a one-time deal. It was nothing to worry about it. It didn't mean anything. Bucky didn't see him that way – and he didn't see Bucky that way! He'd eaten too much and gotten confused. It didn't mean anything. It didn't. 

It couldn't.

+

Once was a fluke. 

Twice was a pattern.

Steve's jeans had shrunk in the wash again. That's what he told himself. His new jeans, barely a month old, had succumbed to the curse of his shitty washing machine and tightened, pinching where they'd once been loose, painful where they'd once been comfortable. 

His shirts were victims, too. His nice, big white t-shirts were getting pretty form-fitting, thanks to that dastardly washing machine. He found himself tugging them down during the day, pulling on the hem to try to stretch them out, plucking at where they were starting to cling to his belly.

His belly. 

The crack in his otherwise airtight denial. 

That was one thing he couldn't blame on the washing machine, no matter how dearly he wished he could: the way his abs were gone, hipbones invisible, stomach getting rounder and rounder as it slowly surged forward beneath those too-small t-shirts. First his tummy had just brushed the fabric, then it'd started to nose at it like a curious dog, and now it was pushing the fabric forward with obstinate determination, stretching the t-shirt gently over his belly-button and taking up too much space, so the hemline worked its way a little higher with every breath. His new flannel shirts were starting to gap a little between buttons, tightening when he sat down, riding up on his fleshier hips. 

Worst of all, his boxers were getting tight, too. They clung to his ass, left red marks on his waist and the widening circumfrence of his thighs. 

“Look at this,” Steve said, patting his stomach. He'd just eaten a couple tuna melts and his belly was sitting happy and round out in front of him, a noticeable curve and bulk beneath his strained flannel shirt. He'd undone his jeans button before they'd even sat down to lunch. “Why didn't you tell me, huh?”

“Well, it's not exactly polite,” Peggy giggled. “One doesn't just say to one's friend, my, you're certainly packing it on, aren't you?”

“I thought you knew,” Angie shrugged. “Eating the way you do...”

“What?” Steve demanded. “I don't eat that much.”

The girls screamed with laughter. 

“Sorry,” Peggy said, wiping her eyes, “I can see you're serious. Darling, if you kept a list of everything you ate in a day, I think it'd shock you.”

Steve put down the brownie he was working on (his second) and frowned at it. Angie said, “Steve, for the record, you look great. So you've porked out a little, so what? Does it bother you?”

“I don't know,” Steve said, touching his belly gently. It gurgled a little. “It's weird. I've never been... chubby, before.”

“Oh, you're hardly chubby,” Peggy scoffed. “But why not do as I suggested, keep a list of what you eat? Then you can, you know, take stock, decide if you want to make any changes.”

“But you look great,” Angie repeated, firmly. “I can't gain weight to save my life. I'd kill for some curves.”

“You can have mine,” Steve said, but he picked up his brownie again.

+

Day 1

2 slices gruyere frittata, 4 pcs toast, butter (lots?), glass milk

2 slice banana bread

meatball sub, bag potato chips, xl orange soda

5 cardamom coffee cookies, 16 oz mocha

1 slice banana bread, butter (lots?) glass milk

half bagel, cheddar cheese (lots?)

12 fried jumbo shrimp (coconut batter), mango dipping sauce, fried plantains (lots?), 1 1/2 bowl white rice, coconut curry sauce. 

5 beers

3 pcs pineapple upside-down cake, whipped cream (lots?)

1 slice banana bread, peanut butter (lots?), 1 glass milk

 

Day 2

1 slice banana bread, 1 bagel, cream cheese (lots?), 6 pcs bacon, 2 glass milk

16 oz mocha

2 pcs pineapple upside-down cake

2 grilled cheese, 1 bowl chili, shredded cheese (lots?), sour cream (lots?) 1 glass milk

2 pcs toast, peanut butter (lots?), honey (lots?), 1 glass milk

1 pc pineapple upside-down cake

Cheese (lots?), ½ baguette

3 chicken breasts stuffed w feta & spinach, feta cream sauce, 3 helpings whipped mashed potatoes, 3 olive herb biscuits, butter (lots?)

2 pcs lemon olive oil cake, 5 scoops vanilla ice cream

3 beers

10 oreos, 1 glass milk

 

Day 3

3 fried eggs, 4 pcs bacon, 2 links sausage, hashbrowns, 1 glass milk

1 pc lemon olive oil cake, 1 glass milk

1 pc – 

 

“Oh my god,” Peggy said. “If I keep reading I'll be sick.”

“That bad?” Steve said, self-conscious.

“The milk!” Peggy cried. “So much bloody milk!”

“She doesn't 'get' milk,” Angie shrugged. 

“It's food, not drink!” Peggy said. “Cut out the milk alone, you'll drop five pounds in a day, I assure you.”

Steve was drinking a glass at that very moment. They were crowded into a tiny booth at a diner near campus, the girls sharing a piece of apple pie and Steve tucking into a piece of German chocolate cake.

“Cake needs milk,” Steve said, defensive.

“Yeah, but do you need cake?” Angie said. “That doesn't look like the snack of a guy on a diet.”

“Who said I'm on a diet?” Steve said, and chugged the rest of his milk obnoxiously loudly, smacking his lips. “Aaah. You were saying, Peggy?”

Peggy was too busy gagging to answer.

“Really, though,” Angie said gently. “This is a hell of a lot of food, Steve. You're eating like six meals a day, plus snacks.”

“I was a little surprised, when I saw it all written down,” he admitted. “I'm not used to thinking about what I eat, you know? I've never been interested in food at all, until Bucky. Now it's all I can think about.”

“Food?” Peggy said. “Or Bucky?”

Steve dropped his head into his hands. “Both,” he said, miserably.

“You're eating your feelings!” Angie said. “Classic.”

“I'm just... hungry,” Steve said, through a sticky chocolate mouthful. “For what feels like the first time.”

“Awww,” Angie sighed.

“If you want to slim down, I'm glad to help you,” Peggy said. “I've been dieting off and on my whole life, so lord knows I've got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“But you're gorgeous,” Steve said. 

“That's what I tell her,” said Angie. 

“You're gorgeous, too, Steve,” Peggy said. “And take it from me – dieting is hell. I'll help you if you really want... but do you really want to diet?”

Steve looked at his empty, chocolate smeared plate, and drummed his fingers on his tight, round belly. “What I want is another piece of cake,” he said, finally.

“Consequences be damned?” Peggy said. 

“Consequences be damned,” Steve agreed.

Peggy smiled and took his hand. Angie signaled the waiter. 

“And another glass of milk,” Steve added. 

Peggy hastily let him go.

+

Steve couldn't bring himself to drop another $100 on clothes, not so quickly on the tails of the last shopping trip, so he made do with his too-small wardrobe as well as he could. He safety-pinned his pants instead of buttoning them, wore his flannel shirts buttoned ever-more-tightly across his too-small t-shirts, and covered up with sweatshirts and jackets and coats. The weather was getting cooler, so he could get away with lots of layers.

Or so he thought.

“Aren't you hot, man?” Sam said. They were having take-out in Bucky's apartment, after a very successful group trip to the corner store for a couple six packs, which Bucky had paid for himself, standing in line and making small-talk at the counter as if his hand wasn't shaking with fear. Every time Bucky left the apartment, Steve thought he couldn't feel any prouder, only to be proven wrong the next day. 

“Hot?” Steve said, innocently. Yes, of course he was hot, dammit. The heat was on full-blast and he'd just put away about four servings of incredibly spicy curry, not to mention a carton of white rice and three beers. 

“You're sweating,” Sam said. “Take off that damn sweatshirt.”

“When are we gonna meet your girlfriend, Sam?” Bucky said, and Steve felt a pang of gratitude shoot through him. 

“I'm getting faint just looking at you,” Sam said, not to be deterred. 

Steve rolled his eyes and peeled off his sweatshirt, knowing full well how he must look: his shirt straining at its buttons, belly filling it out and hiking the hem upwards, the pudgy underswell of it poking out over his waistband just enough to cover the safety-pinned button, thank god, though it also meant there was a little triangle of skin visible where the ends of his shirt didn't quite cover him. He sucked his gut in as best he could, sat up straight, tugged his shirt down. 

“Isn't that more comfortable?” Sam asked, a twinkle in his eyes. Steve could kill him.

“Yeah,” Steve said, already slightly out of breath from trying to suck in.

“So your girlfriend,” Bucky prompted, getting to his feet to go take a pan of lemon bars out of the oven. 

“I don't know,” Sam said. “She's kind of a private person.”

“And I'm not?” Bucky laughed. “Stevie, no! They're still too hot! Shit.”

“Ack,” Steve said, filling his mouth with beer to soothe his burned tongue. 

“Maybe I'll bring her round this weekend,” Sam said. “Have a cookout.”

“It's the middle of November,” Bucky said, doubtfully. 

“So?” Sam said. “Then this guy can wear as many layers as he wants.”

“Me?” Steve said thickly. He was trying his luck with the lemon bars again, more tentatively this time. Too late, he realized he was forgetting to suck in, and glanced down to see his white t-shirt peeking through the gaps in his buttons. He sat up again, quickly, forced his lazy abs to work. 

“Yeah, big guy,” Sam laughed. “You.”

“Aw, quit teasin' him,” Bucky said, but he was smiling. 

“Steve, we're your best buds,” Sam said. “You know you can relax around us, right?”

Steve knew where this was going, and honestly, he was too full to care. Sam was right. They were his best buds. So maybe he wanted Bucky to be something more; so what? It was better for Bucky to see him this way, anyway – then there'd be no chance, whatsoever, of anything happening. No chance for Steve to fuck up their friendship. 

So he did relax. He slumped down exaggeratedly and let his gut fill up the shirt, let it bloat up those last few inches so the buttons were just barely hanging on by a thread, his sides stretching the seams. “Like this?” Steve said. 

Sam was laughing, raising his beer bottle in Steve's direction. “Exactly like that,” he said. “Jesus, Rogers, you are really chunking up! Look at that pudge. That is adorable!”

“Stop,” Steve said, blushing, but he let Sam clink their beer bottles together. He didn't look at Bucky, but he could feel Bucky's eyes on him. 

“The Bucky Barnes effect,” Sam said, leaning over to give Steve's tummy a friendly pat, right above his belly button, at the roundest point. “Look what you did, Barnes!”

“Hey,” Bucky said, holding up his hand and looking uncomfortable.

“It was a team effort,” Steve put in, and smiled at Bucky. “Right?”

Bucky smiled back, reflexively, his cheeks getting a little pink. “Right,” he said.

+

It was like a ripple effect from there. 

A few nights later Steve was set up at the kitchen table with his drawing supplies, absentmindedly finishing off a chocolate cream pie. Admittedly, his method was a little shameless – he hadn't even bothered with a plate, was eating straight from the pie tin, and he had a gallon of milk out, too, from which he took regular pulls. But Natasha was upstairs at Clint's for the night, and so he had the apartment to himself. 

Or not.

“Sorry,” Natasha smirked when she walked in. “Am I interrupting something?”

It was definitely not the greatest moment for an intruder – Steve was leaning back in his chair with his pants fully unzipped, his t-shirt ridden nearly to his belly button, both hands tucked into his too-tight boxers to try and get some relief from the pinch of the waistband, his breath coming short from too much milk and pie. His tummy had rounded out between the useless flaps of his pants, big and bloated and completely on-display. 

“Um,” he said. Natasha came over to the table and picked Steve's fork up out of the pie tin, took a bite of pie.

“Mmm,” she purred. “That is good. No wonder you're getting so tubby.”

Then she loaded up a huge forkful and nudged Steve's lips with it. Automatically, he closed his mouth around the fork and swallowed, and Natasha laughed, ran scarlet fingernails over the curve of his belly while she fed him another enormous bite of pie, then another. 

Then she put the fork down and kissed his forehead. 

“You're my cutest roommate ever,” she said, and went to bed, leaving Steve completely confused as to what had just happened. 

Unfortunately, however, this encounter wouldn't leave his mind, though when he replayed it he put Bucky in Natasha's role – Bucky coming in to find him stuffed and ashamed, Bucky who fed him pie and called him tubby, Bucky who stroked his stomach with his long fingers. It quickly took rank as one of Steve's favorite fantasies, guaranteed to get him there every time. 

Even Clint said something. He'd spent the night and was sitting at the table watching curiously as Steve worked his way steadily through a dozen donuts, pausing every so often to chug milk and hike his shirt down. 

“Look at you go,” Clint said. 

“Late for class,” Steve explained, shoving a last piece of glazed into his mouth and reaching for a jelly.

“And you have to finish all these before you go?”

“Uh,” Steve said, and paused. He hadn't really thought about it. He'd just started eating. He swallowed his mouthful. “Yeah? I mean, I don't want to get hungry halfway through the day.”

“Right,” Clint said. 

“Spit it out,” Steve said, tiredly, expecting some crack about his weight.

“Did Natasha get you these donuts?” Clint blurted.

“Natasha?” Steve said, truly confused. 

“She didn't?”

“Why would she?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, bright red. “No reason.”

Steve finished the jelly and went for a Boston cream, waiting Clint out. He sipped milk, gave a small hiccup. Picked up a strawberry frosted. Waited.

“You know, she likes to give orders,” Clint said, finally. “And usually I like following them. But some things, I won't do. I don't like to eat. Not like... um, not like you do. So I thought maybe...”

“Ugh, jesus,” Steve said. “Leave me out of your sex life, would you?”

“You're just, you're putting on some weight,” Clint went on, “and I thought maybe Nat had something to do with it. She doesn't?”

“No!” Steve said, mortified. 

“Cool, cool,” Clint said, nodding happily. He got up from the table and clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Sorry, dude. Enjoy the donuts.”

“It's gonna be kind of hard, now,” Steve muttered, but of course it wasn't. Of course he enjoyed the donuts.

+

Bucky was the only one who didn't say anything about it. And, weirdly, Steve wanted him to.

“I don't think I could eat another bite,” Steve groaned, stroking the stretched-out sides of his gurgling stomach. He let out a painful hiccup. 

“But there's only one slice left,” Bucky said, gooey piece of pecan pie already poised above Steve's sticky plate. “With a little ice cream, it'll slide right down.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “But man, I've gotta unbutton this shirt first. Oof.” Slowly, he undid the buttons of the flannel that was just barely still able to meet around his middle, and tugged down the t-shirt that was riding high below it. He made a show of sitting up with a grunt, patting his swollen tummy with an open palm before tucking into the pie and ice cream. “God, I'm full,” he said, with another hiccup. 

But Bucky had turned his back to load the dishwasher. 

+

“Look,” Steve said, a few days later. “I'm taking a leaf out of your fashion book.”

He was wearing sweatpants tucked into boots, because he could barely get his jeans up around his thighs anymore. 

Bucky smiled. “Oh young grasshopper,” he said. “You have so far to go. These are designer sweatpants, I'll have you know.”

“Really?” Steve said, stealing a crumble of blue cheese from Bucky's cutting board. 

“No,” Bucky said, swatting his hand. “They're from Target. Here, if you're hungry, munch on these.” He shoved a bag of tortilla chips into Steve's hands, who obligingly began crunching. 

He hiked himself up to sit on the counter as per usual, and he could really feel the weight he'd gained just in that simple movement – he could feel that he was heavier, that his arms were weaker. His belly rounded out when he sat, and saw with some consternation that it kissed the very top of his thighs, now. He smoothed a hand down his wrinkled t-shirt, hand skimming the warm curve, finding the little sliver of belly where the shirt didn't quite cover him. His hips, too, were really starting to lap over his waistband, two fleshy handfuls that were expanding by the day.

He looked up to find Bucky's eyes fixed on him, though he looked away almost instantly. 

“I shouldn't be snacking before dinner,” Steve said, eating the chips. “I should be drawing you or something.”

“You can take a break from drawing for a second,” Bucky said. 

“You never take breaks from cooking.”

“I was thinking I'd like to, tomorrow,” Bucky said, dropping pasta into hot water. “I was thinking maybe we could go out? To eat? At a restaurant?”

“Really?” Steve said, pausing mid-chew.

“I think I'm ready,” Bucky said. “My therapist thinks I'm ready. My meds are working. And I miss restaurants. So... yeah. Sam can't come, but Nat's down.”

Steve felt a brief flutter of disappointment that it wouldn't be just the two of them. “Of course,” he said. “Count me in.”

“And it's your last week of classes,” Bucky said. “So it's kind of like a celebration.”

Steve was touched. “We met on my first week,” he said. “Remember? Man, seems like so long ago.”

“Three months,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, preoccupied with the swell of his belly. Three months? He'd packed on all this weight in just three months?

“Well, four months,” Bucky amended, as if reading Steve's thoughts. “We're making amazing time – we're nearly halfway through the illustrations! We'll probably be a few months over deadline, but that's to be expected.”

Steve ate a handful of cornchips, thoughtfully petting the slope of his stomach. If he kept on like this, what would he look like in four more months? 

+

The dinner was a huge success. Bucky was tense, as always, quiet and watchful, and he ate his meal pressed so close to Steve that Steve had to eat with his left hand so he didn't jostle Bucky's bad arm, but they sat through appetizers, entrees, dessert and two bottles of wine with no problems. Steve was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt – embarrassing, in such a nice place, but not as embarrassing as showing his bloated gut to the world in one of his two-small shirts. He'd finally ordered some new clothes online, the same style Peggy and Angie had forced him into on their shopping trip, and he was looking forward to dressing like a human again. 

“Not as good as your food, Buck,” Steve said at the end of the meal, leaned back tracing soft circles around the stretched skin of his belly button. He'd noticed a few pink thready stretchmarks starting there, and he could practically feel them being formed, his skin itchy and pulling. “But damn good.”

He'd eaten most of the appetizers, a full rack of lamb, and a chocolate pot de crème, plus Nat's leftover chicken tagine and the majority of her tiramisu. 

“It was good,” Bucky said quietly. He was still very close to Steve, and Steve far from minded. He liked the feeling of Bucky this near. Bucky wasn't tactile, otherwise – wasn't touchy, didn't really hug, or poke, or tickle like Steve's other friends. “You want the rest of this cake?”

“You don't?” Steve said, already tugging the plate closer. He could feel how full he was, could feel his breath coming a little short, could feel the heaviness in his belly, the discomfort of his bunching sweatpants, but he couldn't resist chocolate cake. He let out a soft belch. “Excuse me.”

“Order another dessert,” Natasha said. It wasn't a suggestion. Steve raised an eyebrow at her, and she had the good grace to flush. 

“No way,” Steve said. “Clint would kill me.”

“What?” Bucky said, looking back and forth between them. Then, realizing, “Oh, christ. Nat, you're shameless.”

“Order another piece of chocolate cake,” Nat said.

“Nat, look how full I am,” Steve said, patting his belly, and let out another little burp. But god, he wanted to. Wanted to follow her order, every well-trained part of him yearning to do so. 

“I see how full you are,” said Natasha. “Here comes the waiter. Order more.”

Bucky was quiet, as if waiting to see how it would play out. 

“And are we ready for the bill?” the waiter asked pleasantly, sweeping dirty dishes from the table.

“No,” said Natasha.

“I'll have a piece of that chocolate cake, please,” Steve said, giving in. 

“You two are nuts,” Bucky said. 

When the cake came, Nat and Bucky watched Steve struggle through it, pausing every so often to sip wine and wheeze a little. Fuck, he was full, his gut so stuffed it felt like its own planet, bloated and round and aching, but he ate the whole piece and dropped his fork in sweaty triumph.

“Good boy,” Natasha cooed, and paid the entire bill herself. 

Walking back to their apartment was slow-going for Steve, so stuffed he felt a little nauseous, and he kept digging his fist into his belly, trying to ease his own grumbling digestion. Natasha, impatient as always, sped ahead, but Bucky hung behind, his good side pressed into Steve's. 

“Proud of you, Buck,” Steve said quietly. Then, involuntarily as his stomach roiled, “Hup – unngh.”

Bucky didn't acknowledge the praise verbally, but he moved a little closer, then away. “What was that, back there with Nat?” he said, his voice cautious. “Is it... are you two... I mean, is it like that, with you guys?”

“God, no,” Steve said. “That was just for fun, I guess.”

“But you like that?” Bucky said. “Being bossed around?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted. “I kind of do.”

“Hmm,” Bucky said. 

When they said goodnight, Steve said it again. “I'm really proud of you, Bucky.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, face pink, and he ducked his head. “Thanks for being such a good... I mean, thanks for being so... Steve.”

And he patted Steve on the belly, a slow pat pat pat on the firm round dome of it – the first real touch he'd ever given. 

Steve knew he was grinning like a loon, but he didn't care. And that night, it was that touch – that pat, pat, pat – that brought him to climax, alone in his room. 

+

Peggy flew back to England for the holidays, and Angie was gloomy without her, so Steve finally made good on his promise and invited her to the apartment to meet Bucky. He'd convinced Nat – how, he didn't know – to throw a holiday cookie party, and most of the neighbors were coming, plus a bunch of friends. Bucky, wary of new people, had promised to put in an appearance. 

“Just, please don't be weird,” he begged Angie. “He doesn't do well with the whole fan thing.”

“An I ever weird?” Angie said.

“All the time,” Steve said – but he shouldn't have worried. Angie was a fan, yes, but she was a foodie first and foremost, and it was almost scary how quickly she and Bucky took to one another. One minute Steve was introducing them, the next he was sandwiched between them on the couch stuffing his face with a towering plate of cookies while they leaned over him and talked rapid-fire about foods he'd never even heard of. 

“I'm gonna get some more cookies,” Steve said finally, and heaved himself upright to go seek out cookies he hadn't tried yet. He was wearing one of his all-new outfits, and was surprised, once standing, to find out he was already getting full. He wandered over to the countertop full of cookies and poured himself another mug of boozy hot chocolate, then spent some time chatting with Sam's new girlfriend Talia, who was not only lovely and clever, but an awesome cook, to boot – she'd made homemade oreos.

“Seriously,” Steve said. “These are amazing.”

“Well, I've just watched you eat about ten of them, so I believe you,” Thalia laughed. 

“Gonna make it eleven,” Steve said, pushing another cookie into his mouth. He'd lost track over the evening how many cookies he'd had, and he thought with an internal smirk of the food diary he'd kept for three days. There was no denying how full he was, though, and he'd leaned against the counter, his stomach noticeably round even under his loose-fitting new flannel. He palmed it absentmindedly, feeling the weight of all those cookies pressing outward. He wouldn't be able to suck in right now if he tried. 

“Here,” said Bucky, materializing out of nowhere. “Eat these.”

He shoved a plate at Steve – a very, very full plate, cookies piled high. Chocolate chip and gingerbread and frosted sugar and oatmeal raisin... 

“That's a lot of cookies,” Steve said. 

“Eat them all,” Bucky said, and he sounded – nervous? Steve searched his face, his heartbeat quickening. 

“Okay,” Steve said, and took the plate. He followed Bucky back to the couch and wedged himself back in between Bucky and Angie, listening as they picked up their train of foodie conversation, Bucky's eyes flitting to him every so often as he made his way through the cookies. It was slow-going. He really was incredibly full already, and the five mugfuls of rich boozy hot chocolate he'd chugged weren't helping any. He was overheated and a little sweaty, the pressure in his belly so intense he felt like a balloon about to pop, but he kept eating. He got the hiccups halfway through and had to stop, both hands on his jumping stomach, but as soon as the attack was over he kept going. He held the plate close to his chest and found himself thinking if he kept eating like this, he'd someday be able to rest the plate right on his gut. It was an exciting thought, for some reason, and made him eat even faster. 

By the time he'd finished the last bite of the last cookie, he could barely breathe; was splayed out on the couch with one hand cresting his heaving belly, panting in triumph and pain.

“Good boy,” Bucky said, very low in his ear, and Steve nearly creamed his pants.

“You're something else,” Angie said, a little impressed, a little horrified, and poked his tummy none-too-gently. Steve bit back a yelp. 

+

Something had shifted, but Steve didn't know what.

“Order two entrees,” Bucky said, the second time they went out to dinner. They were with Sam and Thalia and Angie, and Bucky said it very quietly. 

“I'll have the Chicken Tikka Masala and the Tandoori lamb, please,” Steve said, handing over his menu to the smiling waiter.

“That's what I call an appetite,” Thalia said, her eyes wide, as she watched Steve clean both plates of food and both sides of white rice. 

“Good boy,” Bucky said. 

A few days later:

“Steve,” Bucky said, placing a pan of peanut butter brownies down on the table, after he'd fed Steve dinner, “eat all of these.”

And Steve did, while they watched a movie with Clint. He methodically demolished the entire pan, gasping for air by the end, Clint looking at him curiously.

“Overdid it,” Steve wheezed, petting his belly with soft, frantic touches. He was afraid to push too hard lest he explode. 

“Good boy,” Bucky mouthed across the room.

And:

“Finish everybody's food,” Bucky whispered, after they'd gotten Chinese takeout at Steve's apartment and were lazing around in various states of MSG coma. And Steve finished Sam's kung pao chicken, Clint's beef and broccoli, Nat's lo mein, Bucky's sweet and sour chicken, and Angie's peking ravioli. 

“All right,” Angie said, nervously, as Steve jammed her ravioli into his mouth, one hand cradling his bloated belly. “It's not the Great Depression. There's more where that came from.”

Steve let out as delicate a belch as he could manage. “Ungh,” he said. “Guess I'm just hungry tonight.”

“When aren't you hungry?” Sam said.

“Good boy,” Bucky murmured. 

It was crazy, what that did to Steve. That secret praise. Despite the bloat and pain in his belly, he was having nightly orgasms that rocked the foundation of his world. 

But other than those small, private orders, Bucky outwardly behaved just the same with Steve. He treated him like a friend, a neighbor, a business partner – not like a lover. Which is what Steve so desperately wanted to be. 

But aside from pressing near him when they went out and a few random pats on the belly, Bucky never touched him. And as for the belly-pats, well, Steve was somewhat bewildered to find that almost nobody seemed able to keep their hands off his rounding tummy. 

“Morning,” Nat said. Steve was sitting on the couch in his boxers and one of his old, too-small t-shirts, working his way through a gallon of milk and a box of Raisin Bran. As she passed, she ducked low to swat at Steve's gut where it was doming out in front of him. 

“Special delivery from the Barton residence,” Clint said, handing Steve a plate of still-warm ginger snaps, followed by a hard pat at the apex of his stomach's curve. 

“Thalia really likes you guys,” Sam said, over coffee and cinnamon rolls at a cafe. 

“We really like Thalia,” Steve said, honestly. “She's beautiful and smart and those cookies, jeez.”

“Would you believe I didn't get to try any?” Sam said, and gave Steve's belly, snug in a new wool sweater, a gentle poke. “Somebody ate them all.”

“Oops,” Steve chuckled. 

“Slow down there, killer,” Angie said, as Steve wolfed down his seventh piece of pepperoni pizza. “No one's gonna take it from you.”

“I guess I'm just --”

“Hungry,” Angie chorused with him. “Right.” She watched him lean over the hard bloat of his stomach, wincing, to reach for an eight slice. “You talked to Bucky yet?”

“I talk to him every day. Hurp. Scuse me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” said Steve, leaning back, trying to get comfortable. It had to be his imagination that his new pants were already getting a little snug. “And I'm not going to. I know he comes off as Mr. Cool, but he's gone through a lot, Angie. I don't want to... stress him out.”

“Maybe he's stronger than you're giving him credit for,” Angie said. 

“Yeah, well,” Steve said. “Maybe I'm not.”

“Aw, honey,” Angie said, and patted the side of Steve's gut the way someone might pat a baby on the cheek. 

“Jeez, what is it with you people?” Steve said. “You'd think I was pregnant, the way everyone's always trying to touch my belly.”

“You look kinda pregnant,” Angie said, blunt as ever. “I mean, your belly's just... right there. Just, like, sitting there, waiting to be poked.”

Steve gave it a careful poke, himself. It felt plump and round and tight with a full day's eating. He had been more aware of it lately, more aware of how heavy it was getting, how full it felt, that constant pushed-out pressure, and more aware of the space it was taking up in his life, and in his lap. He kept getting ink streaked on his belly where it nudged the table in the print shop, and crumbs would fall from his mouth and rest at the juncture of belly and chest, which was beginning to turn into a little shelf, his pudgier pecs sitting on it happily like two handfuls of fresh dough. It rested more fully on his thighs when he sat, now – not just gently brushing them but full-on sitting, placid and round.

When Peggy came home from Christmas break, she took one look at him and said, “Good god, Steven. Did you eat Santa?”

“Ho ho,” he said, submitting to her warm hug. “Nice to see you, too, Peggy.”

“Really, though,” she said. “You must've put on a full stone since I saw you last, and I haven't even been gone a month!”

“The holidays, you know,” Steve said lamely, and here it was, the belly-pat. Peggy rubbed his gut as if for good luck, and it felt pretty good, actually, since Steve'd just finished four Italian sausages and was feeling a little tight around the middle. 

“Even your face is getting chunky,” she said.

“Peg,” Angie said.

“No, I know,” Steve said, patting the place where softness was beginning to gather around his chin. He could feel himself blushing, and it wasn't entirely out of embarrassment. “Everything's getting chunky.”

“I'll say,” Peggy said, walking a slow circle around him. “Look at this bloody arse!”

“Peg, can it,” Angie said, but she was giggling. “Sorry Steve,” she said. “But that arse really is a thing of beauty.”

That arse was also a thing of annoyance – it was beginning to strain the seat of his jeans, making it a little uncomfortable to bend or sit. 

“Your dieting help still on offer?” he mostly-joked.

“It's a bit late for that!” she said, then softened. “Obviously, if you want it. But do you?”

“Nah,” Steve said. “Too much hassle.”

+

Only Bucky didn't mention his weight, even when Steve tried to subtly bring it up.

“Goddamnit,” he said, leaning back and pushing in on his belly so he could unbutton his pants after a typical enormous dinner. “I just bought these fucking jeans.”

“I like them,” Bucky said.

“Is this sweater too tight?” Steve asked, tugging down the hem that kept creeping up. 

“Looks fine to me,” Bucky said.

“My feet are killing me,” Steve groused, after spending all day at the print shop. “Not used to holding this much weight.”

“Maybe you need better shoes,” Bucky said. 

“Eat this whole pie,” Bucky said. “Eat six pork chops,” Bucky said. “Eat this whole bowl of whipped cream,” Bucky said. 

“Good boy,” said Bucky. 

Gurgle, said Steve's belly. Love me, said Steve's heart. 

+

In early March they passed the six-month mark, and in early April Steve realized they had just ten illustrations left to do. He woke up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, realizing that he had just ten days left with Bucky Barnes.

Okay, he knew that wasn't true – knew they'd still hang out, probably a lot, still lived in the same building – but he wouldn't have an excuse anymore, to be over there four or five nights a week. He wouldn't get to eat Bucky's cooking on the regular. 

Bucky wouldn't need him anymore.

Steve pushed himself to sit up against his pillows and turned on his bedside lamp. His sleep tee had rucked itself up above his belly and above the thick lovehandles that wrapped around his back and front, and he tugged it down ineffectually, feeling sleep-hot and uncomfortably chunky. He suspected he'd put on a fair amount of weight since Christmas, because he could feel it everywhere – his heavy gut, his chubby face, his thick arms and thighs, the rolls on his back, and his spreading ass. His tummy mounded up on his lap, sitting on his thighs like a lap dog, and he stroked its roundness worriedly, trailing his fingers up and down its taut curve. 

He wouldn't lose Bucky's friendship – he knew that. But would he lose his chance at something more?

The timeline of their project loomed before him like an ultimatum. 

Steve turned the light back off and slid back beneath the covers, turning on his side, feeling his belly settle comfortably. Its firm weight was somehow comforting, and he fell asleep still stroking it. 

+

“Just five illustrations left,” Steve said nervously, the next week. 

“I know,” Bucky said. He glanced at Steve. “Kinda hard to believe.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, setting down his sketchbook and pencils and coming to see what Bucky had cooking. “Rice?”

“Risotto,” Bucky said, stirring. “I set out some baked brie for you, on the counter there.”

“Mmm,” Steve said, and went over to hoist himself into his usual position. Two hands on the counter, heave, and – whoops. Let's try that again. He grunted, straining to get himself up – just two inches, jesus, but he couldn't hoist his heavy ass up. Third time, thank god, was the charm, and Steve settled himself, his belly looking particularly round in a springtime t-shirt. He adjusted his waistband and patted his tummy absentmindedly, then looked up to reach for the brie. 

Bucky was staring at him, mouth a little agape, spoon danging from his hand. 

“What?” Steve said.

“You, um,” Bucky said. “You got kinda heavy?”

“Oh, now you notice?” Steve said, but beneath his teasing words his kinky heart was quickening. 

“No, I mean, obviously I noticed, but... Sorry, jesus, I didn't mean to... whatever,” he finished lamely, and turned back to the risotto. 

“I used to be able to do a hundred push-ups,” Steve said conversationally. “Now I can barely hoist myself up onto a countertop. Is that what you were thinking?”

“No!” Bucky said. “No. I mean, yes. Kind of.”

“I've gained fifty eight pounds,” Steve said. “Weighed myself at Angie and Peg's the other day. Of course, that was before dinner, so probably it's more like sixty.”

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed. He wasn't even pretending to cook anymore. He was facing Steve, eyes wide. 

Steve plucked at the t-shirt that was tight across his round belly. “It's pretty crazy. Never thought I'd be almost three hundred pounds. But I can't resist the Bucky Barnes effect.” He swallowed, met Bucky's eyes. “Can't resist you, Buck. You make me so fucking hungry.”

Bucky had come closer, now, like a skittish animal, still clutching the wooden spoon. He put it, very carefully, on the counter, and just as carefully, he moved forward until he was standing between Steve's dangling legs. He was trembling, Steve saw, and his hand, when he slowly placed it on Steve's stomach, was shaking. He stroked across the broad expanse of Steve's belly, traced a circle of its roundness with his palm, thumbed the wide gap of his belly button through the t-shirt, ran his fingers up Steve's bowed-out side. He cupped one of Steve's chubby pecs and ran his thumb across the sensitive nub of Steve's nipple, and Steve gasped a little, arched into Bucky's touch. He felt like he was going crazy, breaking into a million pieces, his heart pounding so heart he was certain Bucky could feel it. 

“Stevie,” Bucky said. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Steve breathed. “Yes, Bucky. This is more than okay.”

Slowly, Bucky trailed his fingers up to Steve's face, to his pudgy cheeks and the little pocket of flab beneath his chin. He stood on tiptoes, and Steve bent over his belly to meet him halfway, and they kissed.

Their mouths fit together like strawberries and cream, like chocolate and peanut butter, like milk and cookies. Bucky was all sweet heat and firm pressure, and his hand was on Steve's belly again, kneading his chunky hip, and Steve had Bucky's face in his hands and was kissing him for all he was worth.

They broke apart, Steve gasping a little – from excitement, and because his belly got in the way of bending down like that, and made it difficult to breathe.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“Holy shit,” Bucky echoed, then dove back in, pushing Steve's tight t-shirt up so he could nip at the swollen, pudgy skin beneath it, ticking Steve's sensitive under belly and kissing the skin around his belly button and then pushing Steve's chest with one hand, saying, “Lean back,” then, “Help me out, baby,” and Steve hefted his belly out of the way so Bucky could undo his tight pants, pull down the zipper, tug the pants and the boxers out of the way and nudge Steve's thighs as far apart as he could get them, sucking kisses into the flab there. Then Steve was in Bucky's mouth, and Bucky's forehead was bouncing gently off Steve's underbelly, and Steve had never known such utter joy in his entire life. 

Later, they lay tangled on Bucky's bed, Bucky on his back with his unslinged bad arm resting carefully across his chest, Steve on his side, belly pressed into Bucky's good side and his lips pressing little kisses across Bucky's face. 

“Think I ruined the risotto,” Bucky said. 

“Think I don't care,” Steve said. 

“We could order pizza,” Bucky said. “I could feed it to you right here, in this bed.”

And they did.

+

Idly, Steve thought he might drop a few pounds, what with all the extra exercise he was getting lately, but Bucky had other plans.

Plans that included feeding Steve entire chocolate cakes in bed. Or filling his mouth with muffins as they fucked. Or simply curling next to him on the couch, feeding him bite after bite of sausage lasagna. 

One night, Steve was watching a movie just he and Nat, and he got up to get another bowl of popcorn. He could feel Nat watching as he heaved himself up, rocking back and letting the momentum of his belly lead the way, and he could feel her watching as he settled himself back on the couch, grunting as he got comfortable, tugging down his t-shirt and trying in vain to tug up his sweatpants where they'd worked themselves under his lovehandles and were threatening to slide down his fat ass. 

“You're getting fat,” Nat said.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve said, blushing, and rested a self-conscious hand on his tummy.

“Right here,” she said, and poked the deep roll that was developing at his waist. “And here.” She stroked his jawline where it was beginning to blur into his neck. “And here.” She lay a small hand on one of his thighs. 

“Yup,” Steve said. “Everywhere.”

She laughed. “You do as Bucky tells you, huh?”

Steve's blush deepened. “Usually?”

“Good,” she said. “Good for you.”

+

“You're pudgier every time I see you, I swear,” Peggy said, sweeping into Bucky's apartment, Angie in tow.

“That's a nice hello,” Angie said, smacking her girlfriend. “Besides, don't you think he's edging out of pudgy territory?”

“Hey,” Bucky protested mildly. “That's my Steve you're talking about.”

“Oh, as if you don't love it,” Angie said. 

“I'm right here,” Steve said.

“Yes, we see that,” Peggy said, throwing her arms around him and kissing his cheek, then backing away and giving his belly a firm jiggle. It was a brutally hot day, and they had plans to spend it in Bucky's A/C, playing games and eating ice cream. Steve had gotten a little head start on the ice cream. “Sit back down, love.”

Steve did sit, huffing a little as he thwumped back down into the armchair. He picked up the bowl of ice cream he was working on and said, “I am pudgier, Peg, as you so politely pointed out. Look at this.” He settled the dish of ice cream on his round gut and said, “No hands!”

“He's been doing that all day,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes fondly. 

+

By the time their cookbook came out the next fall, Steve was up another forty pounds and hated tying his shoes.

“If these weren't such nice boots, I swear to god I'd swap 'em for some loafers,” Steve panted, his belly wedged uncomfortably between his thighs as he bent over. “Phew.”

“How do I look?” Bucky said anxiously.

Steve laughed. “The same as always. Handsome as hell.”

It was the book launch, and Bucky was going to do a signing. Just a half hour, and then they'd go home, because while Bucky's therapy and meds and daily exercises were helping, he still wasn't a hundred percent happy in crowds. For the occasion, Bucky was wearing – well, the same thing he always wore. Black shirt, black sweatpants, black combat boots, black beanie. Pink, freshly-washed sling. 

Steve was wearing a snug button-up and snug jeans. He sat by Bucky's side as he signed book after book from his adoring fans, eating a plate of cheese and crackers and smiling when he was recognized. 

“Yeah, I am the illustrator. Thank you! Thanks, yeah, it was a lot of fun. Did I get to try the food? Well, look at page 15, then look at me now. There's your answer.”

Page 15 was the first drawing Steve had done for Bucky – a drawing of himself, all broad muscle and military lines, with hearts in his eyes and baklava in the hearts. God, he looked different, now. Didn't look like a soldier anymore. Didn't look like an artist, either... or a hipster, or a foodie, or a student, or like anything, really. He just looked like Steve. He looked like himself. 

Bucky glanced over at Steve, a little nervous, seeking reassurance, but he smiled happy and natural when he found Steve's gaze. And Steve smiled back. Hearts in his eyes, and Bucky in the hearts.


End file.
